Veritas
by Blackspirals
Summary: When Rukawa becomes honest on how he feels...RuHanaYaoi
1. With

(Drabble)

Title:  Veritas

Author: Celeste

Pairing: RuHana

Rating: PG-13?

A/N: Written in second person narrative, this is my first time posting

a RuHana fic (I've written a MitHana before Ü Hi Wowie!). To the

RukawaLoveHanamichi members—please be gentle, Like what I've said to

K-chan, I've never lurked here before, nor contributed anything, but

I've been a member for a longer time than I've been in

SD_TensaiOnTheRun (which I'm like super active.). This is an beta-d

and written within a 7 hours between writing another fic. I hope y'all

like it.

Dedications: For Wowie and K-chan!! :waves to both: Sorry Wowie, I

haven't followed up yet on that MitHana. K-chan (or should I call you

Kristia?), I'm finally posting in the RukawaLoveHanamichi ML.

Veritas

You sit on a grassy hill, in a park near a basketball court. Your

breathing is even now, if not a little too deep than normal. Your

shirt was damp with sweat, and your hands were tender and almost numb

from handling the ball in an extent that would've killed an ordinary

human. The dribbles, the lay ups, your hands grasping the ring as you

have completed another dunk. You had practiced your skills in the

sport for nearly 5 hours straight; but to you, it was simply not

enough. You did not think that frustration would get you this far.

That frustration would drive you to the brink of madness. You also

didn't think that the frustration would be the outcome of falling in

love with _him_, a stupid bumbling idiot.

You lean your head back, and sprawl in the grass. You feel the tiny

green blades prickling you through your jersey, tickling your worn out

limbs and caressing your sweat-dampened cheek. You look at the sky, to

see cotton-candy clouds stream by, the light blue sky looking calm,

and you would've appreciated the beauty of it all, if not for the mere

image of one of the clouds looking like _him ._

You've pondered on everything far too much, and far too deep these

days, and it was becoming a head ache to deal with. You didn't want

think about it, you didn't really want to, but as it was, you were

honest, far too honest. And honesty was quickly becoming a bitch.

Because being honest meant that you had to be honest to yourself, and

being honest to yourself meant realizing your feelings and

emotions—not that you had any before…

Your reactions, or rather, the lack of it show how much you really

care. Which would be suffice to say:

Zilch…

Zip…

De Nada…

You've never cared for anyone other than yourself. That was the simple

fact, the simple truth that everyone tends to ignore. The truth that

everyone psychoanalyzes as some sort of abnormality you have carried

when you were young, with some sort of traumatic past that you had

experienced. Some even contribute it to the upbringing of your

parents. All because of the beauty that you held, the so-called appeal

that you held. They all wanted it, that elusive beauty, the so called

perfection, and it seemed that they wouldn't accept that you were born

to it, born to that lack of emotion. 

No one gets a reaction from you.

No one.

Not a smile, not a twitch, not irritation not anything.

They want to blame it on anything there is to grasp because they did

not want such beauty to be so cold with the reason of: just because. 

To you, it wasn't self-preservation. It wasn't out right selfishness.

You didn't waste time with the formalities. You don't bother your

conscience with mustering up false politeness and the trap of being

nice. The bullshit in life, where displaying emotion just seems to

take up years of a person's life, when a person could be doing

something else, like improving to perfection, and keeping the purity

of your passion… 

Something you are doing, something you are accomplishing, something

you've wanted with an insatiable hunger all your life, until you (you

scoff to yourself-- _of all people_) had been side tracked.

Sidetracked by _him_. Sidetracked by a punch, a kick and then

that infamous head butt. It shouldn't have been any different from

other fights, those damn purposeless fights where your fists would be

in a dialogue rather than your voice. Yet when he fought you… It was

not the mere Neanderthal urge to prove that their fists were larger

than their brains. When he fought you, he fought with purpose, he

fought with intent, he fought for that damned idiotic girl that you

wish you could dunk in a ring and let her get stuck there for the rest

of her bimbo-ic life.

It wasn't supposed to happen, you weren't supposed to notice him, you

weren't supposed to notice his red hair, his chiseled face, those

damned hands and mocha eyes, and in all the places to notice someone,

it was in a stupid fight! And you got _enthralled by a highly_

idiotic person.

And when you entered that basketball court, you didn't want to believe

it was fate… and yet you thought that perhaps it was. You think,

_this was a test, this was your test, if you don't react to him,_

_then you would still be the same_ With those thoughts came the

realization that for the first time, you didn't want to be honest to

yourself, he got a rise out of you, he got something out of you that

you've never given to anyone before:

Pure annoyance.

It might have been **much** to some. Some who think that you are

irritated with them (enjoying the reaction illogically), but in fact

you simply want to ignore them (Insert the Ru-Ka-Wa cheerleaders

sneezing simultaneously).

From that annoyance spawned reactions you didn't expect: smirks,

scowls, twitches and kicks. Childish payback, heated fights and snorts

of condescendence. It wasn't supposed to happen, none of it was

supposed to happen. You should have put a little more stock in it,

evaluated it a little more, but you didn't. And now it's biting you in

the ass… or maybe, clutching you in the heart.

You rake your hair with your hand, felt the sweat and strands beneath

your fingertips. You then sit up as the sun was shining herself at

your face, blinding you with brightness. 

You then hear a voice, a voice you've known from the moment that

you've met. The voice that calls you _baka and  __kitsune _

in which your voice fervidly matches, with your evenly ice toned 

_do'aho_. 

You don't swivel your head to the general direction of that voice. You

didn't stare in the corner of your eye. Your body didn't make any

discernable move towards any direction. You didn't need to see him;

you've already memorized his face.

You don't flinch, twitch, but maybe, just maybe, your breath hitched.

Just maybe, your heart stopped at that pitch of voice that his voice

takes, where you know he's full of himself, of all his mediocre

accomplishments, of his idiotic need to impress her…

Then your body tenses, and you know the reason why. You know the

reason why his voice is so loud, so high, and so full of bravado. You

know the reason why he was talking about himself; extensively bragging

meager things that he has began learning to do. You knew why he was

boasting of future defeats, that of the large monkey, the porcupine

and the boss monkey. You knew the reason why the list didn't include

the  **_stupid kitsune_. You knew why-- he was with another**

person…

That **_girl_** no less!! Damn stupid, idiotic, nuisance,

blind and bitch of a bimbo girl!

You then realize something that you have to be honest about once more.

He, without knowing, has gotten another reaction from you.

Jealousy.

This angered you more. You never wanted this, this stupid feeling

that's twisting you, squeezing you, leaving that feeling inside, that

feeling that you just want to push him against the wall, run your

hands on those soft red-headed curls, fiercely kissing him on his

lips, making him writhe against your body, moan your name…

Kiss him.

Touch him.

Move him.

Break him.

Love him.

Yet you are honest with yourself again, the feelings he roused against

you were numerous: irritation, jealousy, anger, lust… but the most

that you could think of, the most that can really hurt you, hurt

everything that you're doing, hurt everything you've accomplished, and

the one thing that's stopping you:

Fear…

You then stand up, straighten yourself, and simply walk away…

~*~

A/N: Well, how was it? Not good, I know, it was written in under seven hours, and I was writing another fic, sorry. Got the writer's block on my new fic brat.

I was not supposed to post this on ff.net, but there's a high shortage of RuHana fics, and a high abundance on SenRu fics (These are the fics that I generally despise, no offense). I'm just wishing RuHana fans would comeback and wave their banners or whatever.

:sigh:

Pls, review?


	2. Sans

**Veritas: Sans**

Chapter 2

By Celeste

Note: I'm a little rusty and any comments is much appreciated.

The court echoes now, an indication he's the only one in it, again. He'll clean up, make the floors reflect his image and maybe think a little, on the day, on the sport, on his life, on the girl (and on the guy?) He picks up the ball again, and starts dribbling it. Moderate, fast then faster, he couldn't stop, he wouldn't stop; it felt too good.

They had an altercation of sorts, or maybe it wasn't, he wouldn't know. They hadn't been fighting for a long time now, more of just radiating casual enmity between two team mates. They worked well together, they both had to grudgingly admit that, and when they did, the kicking stop, because (he thinks) their legs are so valuable, and his are pretty damn sexy. The Kitsune's were like sticks.

It was weird how it started, because he didn't even know it did. Somehow he was talking to the Gorilla, and suddenly he was thrown back, a ball hit his chest and the fox's hand was propped on the release. Kitsune looked at his hand and muttered an _oops_, but of course that didn't help.

He's dribbling on the half court now, practicing his jump shots, they weren't perfect, he would _eventually_ admit that, but it was getting there-- fast. He didn't feel the muscles straining, or how his jersey was soaked with sweat, what he did feel was an amazing high, he can do anything and he is _everything_, and hopefully he'll prove that someday, to her.

She's beautiful, his muse, perfect except for that one slight hitch of her making googly eyes at a certain team mate which will now go unnamed but not uncursed or maybe a little unvoodooed (he recently purchased a book from Yohei that could be an interesting science experiment). She still had eyes for him, though.

She watched him eagerly, noticing the improvement, the power, and (if he does say so himself repeatedly) the greatness. She constantly repeats that he and her brother make a good team. That all of them combined make the best team. She gazes up at him like he was superman, and for her, he wishes he really was. He'd save her, from what he doesn't know, but he knows he needs to save her back.

He still doesn't like it when she stares at Kitsune, but a lot of people do, of varied genders, he must admit. He nests the ball at the crook of his arm and scratches his chin. He still remembers each play; he wouldn't admit to the other player's brilliance, he will admit that he had _potential. _

He wondered, as he practiced his dribbling, what it would be like to have all those girls follow him, chase after and (at one time it happened) throw lingerie on the court while screaming madly. Finally, he'd admit, he wouldn't really like it all that much. Although he felt, he at least would be a little friendlier.

_Fat chance_, a voice said. It was in his mind, but it oddly sounded like someone he knew.

He ran to the free throw line of the other half court, shoes squeaking with each step.

He was long past throwing a free throw shot at a low point, but it still garnered him great success. He threw a few shots; his whole body tingling to hear the net and the ball make contact and that familiar uplifting sound of a _swish._

His mind wandered to the three on three matches the gorilla established, and how, for some reason, when Rukawa was on the other team, he could feel him looking. To guard him? To see his next move? But he knew what it looked with other players, this looked weird.

He stopped, he knew the time and he'd clean up, it'll only take an hour, maybe more, but he needed to sleep early, he didn't want to get hit with a box full of chalk by an ornery professor because for some reason they find it offensive that he was sleeping.

He remembered there were a couple of balls outside. Thrown overenthusiastically by two squabbling teenagers. It was fun, those fights. Once there was no bloodshed, he realized, it was actually distressing, especially before a big game.

He went outside and felt the crisp night air. He let his eyes adjust to the lack of light and tried to gauge how far he could've thrown that ball.

"It's here."

What?

He looked to see the Kitsune sitting beside the doors, his back leaning on the walls on the outside of the gym. He saw that the balls were there, four to be in fact and at least none of them were damaged.

He stopped, hesitated, _was he there for a fight? _ It didn't appear so. In fact, after saying those two words, Kitsune appeared to go back to his natural disposition of sleep. He quickly went to the balls and picked it up and hoped to clean up before it got too dark.

As he goes inside, you suddenly here it, except he doesn't pause just goes straight in. He runs to the storage to quickly put the balls away. He'll clean up tomorrow; it's probably getting too dark.

As the water hits his head and he turns to let it drizzle on his shoulder blades, he hear it again, and in his head

_It's perplexing why her._

He thinks of so many questions, and so many reasons why that was said. One of which was the admiration might be not as one sided as the girl thinks.

He shakes his head, he had to admit, it wasn't because of that. He knows more than he lets on, but showing it will take time.


End file.
